


Out On That Lone Pine

by pallidiflora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallidiflora/pseuds/pallidiflora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Stiles is here, sitting on the edge of a queen-sized bed in a cheap motel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out On That Lone Pine

**Author's Note:**

> It's in your bloodline  
> a perfect Frankenstein  
> out on that lone pine  
> I'm gonna make you mine.

_I'm not a teenager, Stiles:_ this is Derek's opening gambit. That he isn't a teenager should be obvious, but he says so anyway, in a way that's leading but final. _I don't want to always be waiting around for your dad to leave just so I can fuck you. I can't just ask Isaac to leave every time._  
  
So Stiles is here, sitting on the edge of a queen-sized bed in a cheap motel, Jeep parked discreetly around the corner and curtains drawn. In the lobby the receptionist had been reading a magazine, and had smelled of fresh nail polish; Stiles paid in cash, and she'd pinched the bills between thumb and forefinger. The slippery floral comforter, the carpet, the fake-wood TV stand, everything has an edge of seediness to it, a slight tackiness beneath his fingers as though filmed with a layer of old touch.  
  
It seems too ridiculous to be true. It's like something out of a bad movie—a bad porno, specifically, with Derek as a pizza guy or jacked-up repairman, fixing the microwave with no shirt on. He entertains himself with this image as he leafs through The Grapes of Wrath; he'd come straight from school for the authenticity, and still has his backpack with him, heavy with a few extra things.  
  
As the curtains begin to glow with sunset, he pulls his smuggled whiskey from his bag, warmer than room temperature, and drinks straight from the bottle—to drink from one of the bathroom's dixie cups is too dismal to even imagine.  


* * *

  
After Stiles has been waiting for an hour and a half, Derek steps in, unsmiling, and shuts the door behind him. Stiles places his book and the bottle, now down to three-quarters full, on the nightstand, which doesn't have a phone. Despite Derek's expression, the sight of him still makes Stiles's stomach clench; he's clean-shaven, and even at a distance Stiles can smell the familiar woody-marine smell of his aftershave. There is something comfortingly adolescent about how he puts this scent on before they fuck.  
  
"Did you see anybody you know on the way in?" he says, locking the door behind him.  
  
Stiles smiles a tight half-moon of a smile. "Hi, Derek. I'm fine, thanks for asking!"  
  
He doesn't laugh. "I'm serious. Did your dad ask about this? What'd you tell him?" He struggles his way out of his jacket, shoulders tight, and flings it across the back of a chair—white-framed, seat and back patterned with a soothing abstract design, one that doesn't match the bedspread.  
  
"No, my dad didn't ask, actually, I told him I'd be at Scott's and that was the end of it." Derek watches him, jaw clenched; Stiles drags a hand across his face. "Look, I know you're really attached to your whole I've-got-trust-issues thing, but what the hell is your deal? Do you think I'm stupid or something?"  
  
"No, Stiles, I don't think you're stupid," he says, folding his arms. "As a matter of fact, I know you're not stupid, but for someone who isn't stupid you make a hell of a lot of stupid fucking decisions."  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm starting to think this was a stupid fucking decision." He sighs. He's too tipsy to want to argue; his entire body feels fizzy, as though he's got club soda instead of blood. He just wants hands and a mouth on him. "Did we pay sixty bucks just so you could yell at me?"  
  
The bed creaks as Derek sits next to him, elbows on his thighs and heels of his palms at his temples. Their knees aren't quite touching. "No. We didn't."  
  
After a moment Stiles shifts closer and puts a hand on his knee, tentatively. Stiles does few things tentatively; it's either with gusto or not at all, and Derek must realize this, for all his quite possibly willful ignorance.  
  
So Derek leans in to kiss him, and stupidly Stiles wonders how he must smell: cheap deodorant, some Axe knock-off. Faintly: drunkenness, sweet. Desperation, metallic. (Sometimes he thinks it might be a burden, to have werewolf senses. It would be like being bombarded; it would be more trouble than it's worth, all that unwanted knowledge. Now isn't really the time to think of this, though.)  
  
When they pull apart Stiles reaches over and grabs the whiskey bottle, which he hadn't bothered to cap. "Want some?"  
  
Derek grimaces. "Kessler? Really?"  
  
"Yeah, uh, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm kinda broke." He takes a swig and grimaces. "Kinda really broke." He swishes the bottle at Derek, and Derek waves him away.  
  
"Your loss."  
  
He sets the bottle down again and, with a valiant attempt at nonchalance, reaches into his bag to pull out a half-empty box of condoms, plus a similarly half-empty bottle of KY. He can see Derek eyeing the rest of its contents: inside there's an extra pair of shoes, grass-stained; his binder, which Scott has covered in Spiderman stickers; his battered junior chemistry textbook. He has a look on his face that he gets sometimes when he thinks no one will notice (or at least Stiles assumes so—if he thought anyone would notice he wouldn't do it); the look is a far-away one: a veneer as in ice over water, equally hard.  
  
Stiles zips his backpack shut and kicks it under the bed. If Derek realizes this was for his sake, he doesn't say so; all he says is "nice Boy Scout kit."  
  
"Always be prepared, am I right?"  
  
Derek offers him a smile small, and pulls him down onto the bed—still made, the slick shabby comforter still pulled up to the headboard over the pillows. They lie there, tangled together, rubbing with thumbs and pelvises, skin, denim, flannel.  
  
Beside him, Derek switches on the clock radio, already set to a classic rock station playing something with rollicking guitar solos, _come on sugar let the good times roll_. It'll do as fine a job as anything covering up the rustling of the sheets, which can be heard if the walls are thin enough; also the sound of the box-spring, which Stiles has already discovered is squeaky. It will cover up Stiles breathing in Derek's ear, _yes, yeah, oh my god_ , and Derek's long final groan. This is how it will go because this is how it always goes, since even the first time: Derek with a handful of spit, Stiles with his knees to his chest, his _yes_ es hesitant, voice cracking on _oh my god_. Afterward he'd bought them both burgers and they'd argued in the Jeep, though over what he can't remember. Something stupid.  
  
This should be every teenager boy's dirty fantasy, fucking to Jimi Hendrix in a motel, larger-than-life masturbation fodder made real. That there is this iron-tasting edge of cheerlessness to it should be inconsequential; Stiles was always more of a hand-holding and you-first kind of guy, but he has nothing to complain about. In fact he should consider himself lucky— _does_ consider himself lucky.  


* * *

  
Derek likes Stiles to ride him the first time around, to start off slow and with Stiles in control—it's the first time around because it's never just once. He's a werewolf, Stiles is seventeen, why not take advantage? Though _take advantage_ isn't the term anyone would like to use. Then he'll fuck him on his back, pillow under his hips (though not much of one, a thin motel excuse for a pillow only); then he'll fuck him on his stomach, ass raised, as deep and hard as he'll allow himself. Sometimes Stiles will fall asleep after this, raw and shaky, but not tonight. Tonight Stiles drinks a little more whiskey and goes to take a leak.  
  
When he returns the radio is playing a new song, _come on come on love me tonight and I'll be yours 'til the sun comes up_. For his part, Derek seems to be ignoring this, pretending to be asleep—or else actually asleep, though that seems unlikely. Sure, Derek has a way of making himself still, but it's not an imitation of sleep, more a tense lying in wait, tightly coiled. Not even sex is enough to dispel this uncomfortable spring-like stiffness; if anything, it's made it worse. It's hard to miss how he's facing the door, hands curled into loose fists and blanket half-off. Stiles switches the radio off and climbs in behind him, not quite touching.  
  
He wonders how many other people have fucked in this room, people like him, young, evading things; people who thought they were in love, not that he has any particular delusions about that. People who also ate Chinese takeout and watched pay-per-view, put on their make-up, masturbated alone. It feels now like he's been lying there for hours, hyper-aware of the feeling of the sheets enfolding him, clammy, lived-in; like being breathed on, like being licked by a rough unbrushed tongue.  


* * *

  
The clock is reading 4:02 now.  
  
"Derek?" he says. "Are you awake?"  
  
Derek rolls over to face him. "Yeah."  
  
So he hadn't slept either, as he had suspected. He leans in to kiss him, aware of how his mouth must taste, morning-stale although he didn't sleep.  
  
They lie that way until Derek flings back the sheets, letting cold air in—or letting the sweaty, muggy air out—and goes to the washroom, overhead light stabbing into the room before he closes the door. Stiles can hear the sounds of the shower running, smells the functional doctor's-office smell of the paper-wrapped yellow soap; he'd done a cursory examination of the bathroom while waiting for Derek, and he hadn't noticed any shampoo or lotion or conditioner, not that he had expected anything, really. When Derek returns, trailing humidity and dripping on the carpet, his skin looks scrubbed raw, patchy pink the dim light. He smells generic, the anonymous floral scent of washed skin—in other words, he doesn't smell like Stiles.  
  
"I should go," he says into the quiet.  
  
Stiles doesn't lift his face from the pillow. "Right."  
  
After pulling on his pants, Derek reaches into his wallet and places a twenty and a ten on the nightstand next to Stiles's head; old bills, torn at the creases. Derek must not pay cash often.  
  
"Wow, that... makes me feel like a hooker. Thanks."  
  
"It's for the room, you idiot." As he says this Derek pulls on his shirt, rumpled and slightly damp. The air above the carpet is close, wet and chilly; the heating must be malfunctioning, if there's any heating to speak of at all.  
  
"Still feeling like a hooker." Childishly, Stiles mumbles this half into his pillow.  
  
"What, you want me to stay and spoon you until it's light out? You know what, why don't we go all out and leave through the front door together? Then I'll just sit in my car and wait for your dad to come by and arrest me, how does that sound?"  
  
Stiles pushes himself into a sitting position, bare arms prickling with gooseflesh. "Jesus, don't you think you're being a little, I dunno, overdramatic?"  
  
"I'm not being overdramatic, I'm being realistic!"  
  
"Whatever helps you sleep at night." And what a ridiculous, half-hearted thing this is to say. Why doesn't he tack on I'm rubber and you're glue while he's at it? Or it takes one to know one, maybe.  
  
Derek tugs on his jacket and stands near the door, hands at his sides. "Look, I'm sorry."  
  
"Me too," Stiles says.  
  
Derek turns the knob and is gone; after sitting at the edge of the bed for ten, fifteen minutes, Stiles packs his things. He leaves things the way they are—the unmade bed, the scummy wet soap on the edge of the tub—climbs into his Jeep, and sits there without driving away. Instead he leans his forehead against the steering wheel and waits.


End file.
